Speaking a Different Language
by Kodiak Bear Country
Summary: Dean hears what Sam's saying, they're just speaking a different language.


**Long Ass Author's Note**: I started this right after I'd watched half of the first season and then I've just been slowly fiddling with it as I watched the rest of the episodes. So, anyway, you'll see some bits of that short John Winchester POV in here, the theme is familiar because I was working on this first and some of the thoughts crossed over.

This story is about the language between the brothers. How Dean and Sam say so much with so little, and how a lot is hidden in what they do say. It's also a lot about what's going down between Sam and Dean as they discover more about the demon and Sam's abilities. Spoilers for everything up to Heart.

It's a collection of scenes and my attempt at a common thread weaved throughout. The thing is, when you start writing in a fandom, you've got to find the voices. Unless you're one of the lucky, amazingly talented peeps, it doesn't just unravel from fingers to screen without a little bit of trial and error, and a lot of work. This is my attempt at finding the voices so I can start writing longer, plotty fic with a point. I wasn't really going to post this but what the hell. It's either this or go build that damn volcano model with my son. ::rueful:: (too bad I'm still going to have to build that model today!)

Title: Speaking a Different Language  
Author: kodiak bear  
Cat: Gen  
Word Count: 5,000 + (I know, a freaking miracle at this point)  
Rating: T  
Warnings: spoilers up to the season two episode Heart  
Summary: Dean hears what Sam's saying, they're just speaking a different language.  
AN: _Chick flick moments_ and _Demon's I get, it's people that are crazy_, both lines are not mine, I just temporarily borrowed them from the talented Kripke and crew. For maximum effect, read while listening to _Had A Bad Day_ (or some other equally catastrophy-based song).**  
**

**Speaking a Different Language**

Dean and Sam were brothers. Some times brothers grow up hating each other, and then some times, they just tolerate each other, but Dean and Sam had grown up closer than ever. When your world's turned upside down, when left is right and night is day, a person clings to anything they can, and when Dean was four, he'd only had two possibilities: Sammy and Dad.

Dean and Sam, they'd grown up under the shadow of their mother's death, but it was Dean that watched out for Sam. It was Dean trying to close the divide between Sam and their Dad. Trying to hold their family together, because Sam was the magnetic south and their Dad, the north, and both repelled one another with more force than Dean could withstand, and in the end, Sam had left.

He'd gone off to college. Left Dad and the hunt behind, and left Dean, too. It'd never been the same and when their Dad had gone missing, Dean hadn't tried all that hard to find him before seeking Sam's help. He'd needed Sam. Needed to have his family back together because at the end of the day, Dean just didn't have that much. He'd spent his entire life learning to be what Dad needed, what Sam needed. He'd learned to fight, to hunt, to protect. He'd learned the tools of the trade and he'd learned to hide like the best of them.

From the moment Dad had put Sammy in his arms, Dean had had to be more than just a kid, more than just a brother.

So you'd have to excuse him for telling the world to shut the fuck up and leave him alone.

"Dean! Get your ass up, time to go."

"I'm sleeping, bug off." Dean pulled the covers over his head and tried to pretend the lump beside him was that hot chick from the bar instead of a motel pillow.

Sam's answer was subtle and dignified, just like Dean knew Sam prided himself in being. He yanked the blanket off Dean and folded his arms smugly. "Not anymore; let's go."

"Bastard." But Dean rolled out of bed with a groan. Pants. He needed pants. Never face the world without your pants. They were crumpled on the floor, next to the nightstand, next to the crumpled Burger King bag and a half-empty bottle of beer. A little sloppier than his usual, but last night had been a little worse than their usual. Karma and all that shit.

Mornings in their line of work were a bitch. Dean could stay up most of the night, running on adrenaline, crashing when it was over, but it didn't seem to matter how late he slept the next day, he still felt lethargic and slow for at least an hour _and_ the time it took to drink two cups of coffee.

It's a hell of a way to make a living, that's for sure. But then again, Dean wasn't all that convinced he was making a living. More like eviscerating. Go to a town, kill an inhuman beast, or vengeful spirit, meet some good people, some dead people, and some assholes, then so long, next hunt.

Next asshole. Next demon. Next grave to dig up, salt, and burn.

He chuckled wryly. It could probably be worse. Hell, he could have a 9 to 5 job, a boss and a _dress code_.

"You're worse than a slug." Sam shot a disgusted look Dean's way before turning back to his bed and sliding his laptop into his bag.

"The only reason you're up first is because I let you sleep while waiting for spooky to show last night."

"I'm always up first."

Dean threw a pillow at Sam's shoulders and grunted, "Whatever." Then he staggered to the bathroom and hoped like hell Sammy wouldn't find anything within a 24-hour radius to investigate. One day off. That's all he was asking.

OoO

"Damn it, Dean, burn the thing!" Sam gasped. The apparition was fast. Faster than anything human could ever be, and even though Sam rolled frantically away from the reaching claws, it snagged his shoulder and flipped him easily into the air.

Dean, with a rushed glance Sam's way, patted his pocket. _Lighter, where was the goddamn lighter!_ He was six feet down, standing on the remnants of an old pine box, his feet wedged between bones and he couldn't find the fucking lighter. Jesus. He jammed his hand into his left pocket and blissful relief vibrated through his mind as his fingers touched metal warmed by his body heat.

"Son of a bitch," he breathed, frantically scrambling out of the grave while flicking the flame into existence. "Hang on Sam!" He turned, getting ready to throw the lighter onto the already salted and doused corpse. He didn't see the ghostly hand coming at him until it hit him full force, whipping his body around, tossing Dean through the air; the lighter flung the opposite way by the force of the impact.

"Dean!"

Stars. Wow. And it was even a cloudy tonight. Too bad these stars were spinning sickeningly around, making Dean consider which pressing need had priority: fight or puke? As the ghostly glow leaned into his still rotating eyesight, Dean tried to roll away, mumbling, "Definitely fight." Throwing up would have to wait. He grabbed for the gravestone that his head had moments ago become intimately connected with, and tried to focus. For the second time that night, he found himself frantically scrabbling to find the lighter. "Sammy?" He stumbled around.

The ghost stalked stealthily behind Dean, nice and slow, enjoying the hunt. The maggot-filled mouth curled in a feral smirk. "Glad you're enjoying yourself, prick," Dean muttered. "Sammy, you okay?" he shouted.

Zachariah Zellers glided gleefully between Dean and Sam. Or, to be precise, the evil bitch ghost of Zachariah.

Sam was down, his legs moving in an attempt to get up, but all he managed to do was dig furrows in the dirt under his heels. "It pinned me," Sam cried. "Son of a -- with our shovel. Burn it Dean!"

_Thump, thump_; the sound of Sam banging his head against the ground echoed in a sudden lull of silence, and Dean realized his brother's legs weren't moving in an attempt to get up, but writhing from the pain of being impaled to the ground by the handle on the shovel.

The ghost leered.

Sam moaned.

Dean spotted the silver glint.

He dived, his hand wrapping around and flicking the starter in one desperate motion. The flame welled up, his left hand outstretched as he rolled to his back. Zachariah bent over Dean, his long, desiccated and decayed hands twisting solidly into the material of Dean's jean jacket, yanking him up so close he smelled fetid breath.

"Die, bitch," and Dean threw the lighter into the grave, saying a silent prayer that it wouldn't go out before touching the accelerant.

Then he felt cold pierce his shoulder, burning. He couldn't bite back the scream.

"Dean!"

With a roar, fire exploded upward from the pit. The flickering, frenetic flames glowed orange and red, lighting the night around them. Dean opened his eyes, and found Zachariah staring at him, dumbfounded; one of his hands still pushed deep into Dean's shoulder. The ghost shook his head, like he'd been struck with a fist. Then he pulled back, the heavy chill receding. Zachariah straightened and stared at Dean, confusion rampant. As freaky as the undead were, they just weren't all that bright. Then, with a backwards jerk, the ghost burst into flame, disintegrating without even an angry cry of protest.

Dean went boneless, falling back. _Dude_. That was a mean son of a –

"Is it dead?" Sam's panic had eased but his tone was laced with pain.

"Yeah," Dean grunted. "Think so. Hopefully for good this time." He pushed himself up, fighting to keep dinner down. Sam's legs had stilled. "How 'bout you?"

"What? Am I dead?"

Dean rolled his eyes toward the sky. "Yeah. Are you dead. No, dumbass. How're you doing?"

Sam thunked his head against the ground again for good measure. "I'm impaled on a shovel handle, how do you _think_ I'm doing?"

"You know, it's gonna hurt like hell to get you free." Dean crawled over to Sam, the light from the still burning corpse casting eerie shadows on his brother's face. Beaded sweat betrayed just how much pain Sam was in. Dean swallowed back bile, not sure it was from the hit he'd taken earlier, or seeing the gruesome injury. His jaw set, he looked around for a stick, or something; Sammy would need something to bite down on for the pain.

Everything near was dirty and in the end, Dean pulled his belt free of the loops on his jeans; he had to turn his head suddenly to the side, gagging when the queasiness overwhelmed him. Sam closed his eyes and breathed deep. "Great. You're concussed and I'm impaled. This has been just a fantastic hunt."

"Here, bite on this," Dean said softly.

"Dean, before --"

"Just bite, Sam, no chick --"

"- flick moments," Sam laughed wryly, choking back a cough. "Right. I forgot." His nostrils flared with another painful breath. His mouth twisted down. "Fine, have it your way, but if I don't make it --"

"I'll give your best to Sarah." Dean grinned irreverently. Then he pushed the leather between Sam's teeth and went to work on the shoulder. With the help of a hacksaw, he got his brother free, the handle severed to just a couple inches sticking out in front and back. In the beginning, Sam screamed through the leather, moaned and groaned, and Dean had clutched the saw so tight his knuckles whitened painfully. Thank God they'd brought the small shovel. Eventually, Sam passed out and Dean took a few moments to take deep, steadying breaths before finishing. Then he packed gauze around the wound, securing it the best he could for the trip to the hospital.

And then he slurred, "God, that fucking sucked," rocking back on his haunches, before bolting behind the headstone and giving his pizza a second chance at life.

OoO

"Knock it off," Dean growled under his breath.

"Knock what off?" Sam hissed.

He was so close that he knew Dean could feel Sam's breath on his neck. They were creeping in the dark, under the windows of the old Victorian style home. Something was killing women. Always single, young, college women, and always slipping into their homes around midnight without unlocking a door, or a window. And the victims were all sorority pledges.

"Hovering. I'm not gonna break." Dean paused at the corner. The house they were watching was silent, not even a rat scurrying in the dark kitchen.

Sam hunched behind Dean and steadied his breathing. "I never said you were," he hissed. Then he scowled at Dean's back and thought _liar_. Less than a month ago, Dean had died. Resuscitated. Stalked by a reaper, _again_, even though Dean couldn't remember. This time, it was their Dad that gave his life so that Dean could live, though neither one of them had admitted it until Sam had pushed Dean to the edge. Pushed Dean into finally cracking.

"_I was dead. I shoulda stayed dead."_

They never talked. They never opened up about their feelings. Dean didn't cry and Dean didn't share; and when Sam finally pushed him hard enough, Dean, broken, had demanded what could Sam possibly say to make it all right. And after all his pushing, Sam had been the one at a loss for words, because Dean was right. They both knew it. Dad had gone and done something irreversible, given his life for Dean's, and there wasn't anything he could say that would make Dean's guilt go away. And Sam had discovered that he had a newfound hate for seeing Dean cry.

"Yo, evil ghost-bitch, eleven o'clock, second floor," Dean whispered over his shoulder.

They checked their shotguns and then they jogged to the door, keeping low, keeping quiet. Getting the neighborhood watch on their backs would just mean the death count would go up.

A moonless night helped keep them under cover. Dean's breath came in short, ragged spurts of cold fog billowing around his face. He picked the lock with expertise while Sam glanced around, making sure no one was looking. Then they were in and shutting the door with a soft _snick_. A nightlight in the hallway flickered, died, and a floorboard creaked through the ceiling above.

Sam grabbed Dean's arm.

"What?"

"Let me go first."

"Why, Sammy, so you can save me?"

They stared at each other, faces ghostly pale by the shaded night of the house. Sam's jaw clenched and Dean just made a face and shook his head. "We don't have time for this." He turned his back to Sam and crept up the stairs.

So many arguments, so little time.

In the end, the ghost had Dean by the neck and Sam had the girl by the arm. The victims had been friends and at each house, a piece of the spirit's skull had been found. Sam had the other pieces, scammed from the police evidence room thanks to fake ID's -- some day that was really gonna get them in deep shit.

Her tear-stained, panicked face nodded when Sam demanded if she had the last piece.

"Where?" Sam asked harshly, trying to tune out Dean's gasping battle to breathe while he fought with the ghost.

She pointed wordlessly to her dresser.

People could be so incredibly stupid. A joke, a hazing ritual, a dug up skull and an ancient ceremony that was all supposed to be a joke but college kids often played with fire and didn't live to regret it. Dean and Sam had burned the rest of the corpse the night before but knew until they got the skull, there'd be at least one more victim.

"Sam," rasped Dean. "Quit playing around, burn the bitch!" Then Sam watched as Dean was hauled into the air and thrown across the room.

The pissed off spirit was coming for him. Sam scrambled to the dresser, felt his hand close around the skull bone. Then he ran, down the hallway to the bathroom, tossing the bag into the sink along with the missing part, digging in his pockets for the salt and accelerant and lighter. "Come on, come on, come on," he chanted.

The door was thrown open and Sam spun, thrusting his back against the counter.

Oh, hell.

"Hey, you, with the pissed-off attitude! Why don't you come and get me!" Dean was barely on his feet, dark trails of what Sam figured were blood snaked down his forehead, but he had his shotgun up, his grip wavering, and when Dean shouted, "Sammy, move!" Sam pushed his body back just in time to hear the roar of the rock salt rounds after they slammed into the apparition. You never heard the shot until after it'd already hit.

The rotted woman puffed into a dark cloud, dissipating. Sam's lungs ached. Dean panted a few yards away. The girl they'd come to save stumbled out of her bedroom, her nightgown torn and stained with blood. "Is it gone?" she asked tremulously.

The cloud reformed in front of Dean, knocking the shotgun out of his hands and slamming him against the wall. He slid down, boneless.

Burn the skull. _Burn the skull_. Sam flipped around, sprinkled salt, squeezed gasoline, and fumbled with the lighter until he got a flame, then he tossed it onto the broken remnants of bone and life and death.

He turned back in time to see Dean flop loosely to the tile floor, the ghost screeching her death throes until suddenly, with a disquieting _pop_, she was gone, and the lights came back and Sam's breath returned. The abruptness of the end always threw him.

"Oh shit, Dean," he rushed the words on top of each other, jogging to his brother's side and kneeling.

Dean pushed himself up on a shaky elbow and blinked fuzzily. "Dude," he grunted. "What took you so long? Were you trying to reassemble your girlfriend or something?"

Sam slowed his breathing, thought about how all of this couldn't be good for the blood pressure, and fell back against the wall, chuckling, euphoric; they'd survived another night, another hunt. Then he punched Dean on the arm. "You scared the shit out of me."

OoO

Dean held the neck of his beer bottle loosely, grinning at the two ladies at the bar. One blonde, one brunette, and hey, a night off was just what the doctor had ordered. Although, the doc had said no alcohol; what the hell, one out of two wasn't bad.

He raised the bottle to his lips, took a drink, and then turned away, giving the girls his leather-clad shoulder, searching the crowd for Sam. First rule; never let 'em see you're interested beyond the recognition that you find them sexy. Make 'em intrigued. Well, unless it'd been over a month and desperation was setting in. Then you could do the approach. Tonight might've technically been more than a month, but getting beat up was negative points. Chicks dig scars, not scabs.

Besides, Sam had said he was just gonna shower and then he'd meet Dean at the bar.

And Dean hadn't forgotten the last time he'd let Sam go off on his own at a bar. He took another swig just to wash away the heebie jeebies. Jesus. Wind chimes made out of human bones, jars of teeth, cages and fucking hot pokers –

"Hey." Sam sidled up from behind and pressed a warm hand against Dean's back before hopping onto the stool and faking a wounded expression. "Jerk, where's my beer?" He looked at the table, bereft of an extra Bud, scattered instead with peanut shells and a napkin.

"Behind the counter," Dean said. "Go get it. In fact, I'd go," Dean swiveled to point at the two ladies with a tilted head and a raised eyebrow, "right through there."

Sam rolled his eyes but slid off the chair. "I bet you would."

Dean just smiled wider. "Pansy."

"Asshole."

OoO

Sam watched Dean sleep, then slid his eyes back to the laptop screen. It was the only light in the run-down motel room that had seen better days. Better days like a decade or two ago. Another long day, another longer night, and another close call.

Dean was on the edge. Sam knew it. Dean knew it. Hell, Sam was pretty sure Ellen suspected it, which was at least part of the reason why she was so pissed at Jo for tagging along on that job a month ago.

But this…_this_ sucked. Sam had been infected by that demon virus and beyond the freak-out over realizing that this time he really _was_ going to lose his mind and start killing people -- it wasn't a matter of if, but when -- then there was the slap in the face when Dean refused to leave him. Every fucking time Sam tried to get the guts to end this, Dean refused to let him go, and more and more, Sam was beginning to fear that there wasn't going to be any solo-trip on that last walk down the line.

Dean wasn't going to let him go anywhere alone, not even death. And that was really starting to piss Sam off.

OoO

Dean and Sam were brothers. And in Dean's book, that meant that Sammy was his responsibility. There was a time when he'd accepted it without a second thought. But that had been shattered when Dean had lain in a hospital bed, minutes after a miraculous recovery and waking from a coma, only to have his Dad whisper heavy shit into his ear and then walk away just to die.

There was a time when Sammy hadn't been heavy, but now maybe all Dean's close calls with the reaper were wearing him down, or Sam was getting harder to carry, because it sure as hell seemed the weight of it all was bending Dean's back, and he was already bowed enough as it was.

Sam stared at him, thoughtful. Dean glanced sideways, still eyeing the yellow lines passing by in the headlights, even while glaring at Sam. "Don't make me kick your ass."

"What?" Sam asked, irritated. "I didn't do anything."

"You're staring again." Dean turned his full attention back to the road and twisted the dial up, always glad to hear Ozzy.

Sam shrugged lower in the seat. "Wasn't. You're just a paranoid jerk."

"Me?" Dean snorted, incredulous. "That's rich, coming from you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Dean rolled his eyes and mimicked, "Kill me, Dean. Kill me now, before I turn all evil and kill everyone."

"That's not funny, Dean." Sam pushed his eyes shut and looked shaken.

Christ. Awkward silence time. Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, it's just, dude, lay off the theatrics, okay? I'm not dead, you're not dead, neither one of us is any more evil than we were yesterday, okay? Just chill out."

And then, just because the universe had a bone to pick with Dean, a week later, Sammy went and got himself possessed by that bitch, Meg, and broke Dean all over again. At least this time Dean saved the crying for the women; to make his point about how worried he'd been and how Sammy needed to just knock that shit off, Dean punched him. And maybe a little because, damn, _dude_, his shoulder hurt like a mother after Meg had dug into it.

Besides, he'd tried shedding a tear or two, hadn't really worked for him; it'd left him feeling way too open and vulnerable. Dean found violence a hell of a lot more satisfying.

OoO

Sam thought about how much werewolves suck. How badly falling in love with one hurt (and sucked). And then he mentally swore that demons, ghouls, vengeful spirits, vampires, hell, trans-gendered hamsters _sucked_. So maybe Sam figured the whole world just sucked, and after Madison (and everything else), he figured he had the right.

Dean knelt in the graveyard next to him. The grass was damp with night dew, their breath, misty-white in the low forties-temperature. Yeah. This was their life. Mom died and instead of licking his wounds, their Dad armed himself to the teeth and started fighting back. Dad went missing and Dean roped Sam into leaving college and looking for him, only to find a different trail, and to lose his girlfriend to the same demon that took their mother. And still, they went right back to fighting.

People just kept dying. Mom, Jess, Dean, Dad… except Dean kept coming back. And Sam was growing more and more afraid that _he_ was going to be the one who put Dean down, for good.

And still, they just kept fighting.

"Do you see anything?" Dean hissed.

"Yeah," Sam retorted, a little more sharply than he meant, "a bunch of graves." He waggled his fingers in a "spooky" gesture. "Save me, Dean. Protect me from the evil spirits." The raw pain from Madison left Sam harder, callous.

Dean shoved him roughly and Sam barely managed to catch himself from falling on his ass. "Knock it off, this is serious, you read the reports, four kids, torn to shreds, and it all happened here."

"Then where's the cops, Dean?" Sam righted himself and waved an angry hand at the deserted cemetery. "If it's so dangerous, why aren't the locals staking it out, keeping the kids away like they did with the taupa spirit case?"

"Because nobody believes in ghosts," Dean growled, turning away. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to hunch in his jacket and conserve body warmth. "Besides, I guarantee you the cops are out there, so straighten up; the only difference is they're looking for a killer of the human kind and not knowing will probably get more people killed, including us."

Sam debated on pushing. He always debated. Sometimes he decided it was worth it, sometimes he didn't. This time he turned away and pushed his lips together, biting back more of an argument. Hell, maybe it was him. All these years and all the fighting he did with Dad. Maybe it hadn't been Dad at all, and Sam just liked to argue.

"Look, Sammy, I'm sorry, all right? We just need to focus here, no goofing around, or pining on past problems."

"Pining?"

Dean quirked a smile and an eyebrow. "Nuh-uh, focus."

The unholy shriek cut-off Sam's response and he was left asking himself why Dean somehow always managed to get the last word, and then they were off, running at a crouch, Dean with the EMF detector in one hand, shotgun loaded with rock salt in the other, and Sam held his own gun and his nerves.

They found the spirit clawing a cop. The man was down, his uniform ripped open, spilling blood, but he was still alive enough to gasp, "Help," through blood-stained teeth.

Dean didn't even waste time; he spun the gun up, chambered the round, and shot the spirit in the head. Dark mist shattered in a million different directions and Sam twisted around, looking, waiting for it to reform (it didn't), while Dean ran forward to help the injured guy.

"Where's your partner?" Dean demanded.

"No…no par…partner," the cop coughed wetly. "Jus…just me…me."

"Son of a bitch!" Dean's gun was by his knees while he tried to find some way to stem the flow of blood seeping out incredibly fast from the fatal wounds; long, angry claw marks that stretched from scapula to waist.

Sam's breathing quickened. The cop was dead. Dean punched the wet grass angrily, before snatching his shotgun and scrambling to his feet. "We've got to find which grave is spawning this thing, and salt and burn the bones before he kills someone else."

Together, they scanned the rows and rows of headstones. Sam's shoulders slumped. "It can be any of these. How are we going to find out which corpse is to blame for this?"

Dean's nostrils flared. "We come back." He didn't like it anymore than Sam did, but he was right.

Sam nodded. "We'll search the library records, see if there's any violent deaths. Anything that would create this. There's got to be something, because that," Sam waved weakly at the already cooling corpse, "was one seriously pissed off ghost."

"And since kids are his choice dish, we should look for anyone with a grudge against anything shorter than five feet," Dean muttered.

"Guess you better watch out then, bro."

"Ha ha," Dean cracked, trudging back towards the Impala. "You slay me."

One day of searching turned up an ignominious account in the local newspaper, about a homeless man, killed in a prank turned deadly. A handful of teens had spiked an alcoholic's bottle with drugs. Then, after he died, panicked by the thought of getting caught, they dragged the body into the forest and left it for the animals to eat. A hiker stumbled upon the body and forensic evidence leaked and a guilty kid cracked, spilling the tale.

Underage, they were sent to juvy, and less than four years later, their records expunged when they turned eighteen. The ghost wanted revenge.

Dean and Sam finished patting the dirt, returning the grave as much as they could after having dug it up and burned the angry corpse. Then, with a final look, they turned and headed back towards the cemetery gates. Harold Krebbs would finally rest in peace, five dead people later.

Dean shook his head. "I'll say it again; demons I get, people are just crazy."

"They panicked," Sam offered softly. "They were just kids, it was meant as a prank. We know it takes a lot less than that to kill. To murder and do worse things."

"Don't go there, Sammy."

"I'm just saying --"

"I know what you're saying, but that isn't you. You're not some cold-blooded killer, you're not some demon's tool, and I swear to God, dude, if you try to tell me to kill you one more time --"

Sam paused, the shovel on his shoulder. "Then maybe you should start listening."

Dean kept walking. He took a couple more steps, probably hoping Sam would just let it go and follow, but when Sam didn't, Dean stopped. He turned and faced Sam, swallowing in the dusky twilight and staring tiredly ahead. "I hear you, Sammy. I really do. It's just…we're speaking a different language here. You're my brother, Sammy. My family. You're all I've got left and I'm not going to let you go."

OoO

Dean and Sam were brothers. Once upon a time they'd had a mother and father, a house, and a life. Now, they had each other, a ragged journal, an Impala, and the wide, open road.

Sam was a little nuts. Dean was a little nuts.

And Dean figured maybe that was the only reason why he hadn't snapped yet. When you spend your life facing down spirits, demons and other paranormal phenomena, when you grow up killing, you can't help but think it's gonna warp something inside. And seeing how Sam was beginning to think he was already warped, Dean figured they were a point down before the game even started.

He burrowed further into the covers, considered calling the day a bust and spending it in bed. It'd been a hell of a year.

"Dean, dude, today, all right." Sam yanked Dean's blanket off and turned back to packing.

"What's wrong with tomorrow?" Dean glared, but pushed himself up, looking for his pants. He needed his pants – never face the world without your pants.

Sam, rolling his eyes, rooted around on the floor and picked up Dean's pants, tossing them at his brother's chest. "Tomorrow's booked, today's for driving. Check back later on the day after tomorrow."

"Ghouls? Missing persons? General assholes?"

"More like possessed animals."

"Dude, I am _not_ exorcising Lassie."

**The End**


End file.
